


Gone.

by shlebs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, EMOTIONALLY DISTRAUGHT, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I'm so sad, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:10:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shlebs/pseuds/shlebs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mary's wedding goes swimmingly, but a certain someone is missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone.

The room was bathed with golden light. A delicate melody twinkled from the piano's somber body, that resonated within the hearts and minds of the people below the stage. Clusters of bodies, paired with one another were formed, twirling around one another on the cool marble floor. Silhouettes joined and formed one shadow as the guests claimed their dance partners and drew them close.

The melody was a soft, yet somber one, that spun through the air like a bird freed from its cage. The piano's highest keys were struck, creating a light, airy sound over the rumbling bass notes. Just enough rhythm to dance, the effect was that of an unforgettable waltz, encouraging lovers to join each other in dance.

John help Mary by her back, enfolding her slender left hand in his calloused right. He pulled her closer, resting his cheek against her blonde locks. He inhaled deeply, drawing the scent of pine with hints of the metallic tang of her barrette in through the nose, then releasing the breathe deeply through puckered lips. The creases at each end of his mouth tucked over each other as his lips unfolded into a sweet smile. His eyelids closed briefly as he sucked in the sound of the moment, savoring the meeting of the piano to his ears. He pulled away to spin her under his arm, and then brought her in close once more, shoes clacking away at the ground below them.

No longer John and Mary. Now, Dr. and Mrs. Watson.

A great crescendo powered on through the keys of the piano to the drums inside of its body, followed by a ritardando. The pianist leaned closer to the sleek black sheen of the great instrument as he tapped out the final notes, bringing the song to a close. Polite claps ensued, wrapping around the final vibrations of the D minor chord.

John extended his arm to Mary. She tucked her arm underneath it, wrapping her long fingers around his bicep. She followed, one pace behind him, as he made his way towards the nearest kitchen staff, who bore a tray stacked with champagne glasses. They each took one, and with a nod of the head to the waitress, they sipped at the amber liquid.

John felt the alcohol course down his throat, warming his insides. He took another sip, the liquid did not flow as well. He sputtered as the champagne caught in his throat. He hacked vigorously, posture crumpling. With a good two thumps to his chest, he cleared his throat of its catch, and bent up. He felt the warmth travel from his chest to his cheeks as his cheeks tinged pink. Mary's giggle only served to increase their reddish hue.

"Oi, Dr. Watson. Not sure how we'll afford your medical bill if you choke after this wedding!" 

John chuckled at Mary's comment. "I'm sure you're qualified enough to treat me, _Mrs. Watson_."

He pulled Mary close to his body, before dipping her back into a low kiss. They tittered at each other like doves as white as the dress that adorned Mary's slender figure. They straightened themselves, but John kept his arm cradling Mary's back.

She looked up at him, her light eyes glistening. "I can't believe it, still."

"What, being married to the most handsome man in the world?"

Mary slapped his chest lightly, laughing over the thick thumping sound that it created. "No, you tit! A baby. Our baby."

John's eyes crinkled in delight as he gazed into his wife's eyes. It was practically unbelievable that he, John Watson, Fifth Northumberland and Fusiliers, would be a father.

"Our baby. And to think that that complete and utter dickhead figured it out before me! Speaking of, where has Sherlock ran off to now?"

"Not a clue, husband. Maybe he's off with one of the bridesmaids. Just think of it!"

"No, really. Where is Sherlock?" John scanned the room with a hard stare and furrowed brow. He had spotted Mrs. Hudson, dancing up against one of Mary's uncles (and had shuddered at the sight of it). Molly had been grinding up against Tom, driven by the concept of how much sex they had been having, as she liked to remind nearly everyone (another shudder there). And of course, Lestrade had been staring sadly at Molly for a bit, before a bridesmaid approached him. They were now two-stepping like there was no tomorrow. All of the people Sherlock would associate himself with, besides himself and Mary, and no sign of him. "He's not here."

"There's a number of people here, John. He's probably in the sea of people, and you just can't see him."

"No, I just checked. He's not here, I'm sure of it."

Mary looked up at her husband as he peered harder into the mass of sweaty dancers. The dimmed lights weren't exactly a relief on his eyes, but Mary had faith in him. If John said Sherlock wasn't there, he wasn't there. She saw plastered onto his face a look she had become familiar with, a look of worry and anxiety reserved for Sherlock. And, as always when it came to Sherlock, it was not a look he was fond of others noticing as he wore it on his resigned and weary face.

"I'll check the dance floor once more, love. Maybe he's just sitting down, probably tired from all the people. You know him. Go check the other rooms and the garden. Meet me here in 10, though, and don't go wandering off! Don't want you to get lost on our wedding night." Mary kissed his cheek, and took his hand from her waist. She gave it a hearty squeeze, before released. She lifted her skirt as she waded back into the mass of people.

As soon as she was out of sight, John sprinted. He ran down the corridor, poking his head into each of rooms. Each was bare, and his calls of his name echoed through their empty walls. His dress shoes squeaked against the shiny ground. Each time that he swerved into a room to check for his tall, tuxedo-clad friend, he left a distinctive swipe of scuff on the ground, black as the night while lay beyond the crystalline windows.

He burst through the doors leading to the banquet room. A few kitchen staff members sat idly about a white-clothed table, a pack of cards spread across the cream tabletop. They paid no heed to John as he strode to where they sat.

"Excuse me, have any of you fellows seen a man; tall, black coat probably, curly hair? He might have walked by-"

One of the waiters looked up at John out of the corner of his eye. He spat the cigarette resting between his purplish tinged lips into the nook between his index and middle fingers. He blew a cloud of smoke out, which swirled through the air and into John's face. His resistance to cigarette smoke had increased throughout the years as Sherlock sometimes, unfortunately, broke his good streak of abstinence from smoking.

"The one with the cheekbones, eh?"

John nodded furiously. "Yes, that's the one."

The man chuckled darkly to himself, and shoved the cigarette back into his pursed mouth. He chewed lightly on the end, the black goo seeping between the spaces of his teeth. "He left. Not too long ago. Went out thattaways." He jabbed his thumb behind him, motioning to an exit.

"Thank you, thank you, I ought to, uh, thank you." John stammered, as he was already heading quickly towards the door. He heard the staff laugh behind him as he approached the exit.

A shock of cool air, unnaturally chilly for the May atmosphere, coated John as he took his first paces into the garden. Light flooded in from the steely lamps hanging above him, casting shadows upon the greening rose bushes. Petals belonging to foreign flowers were strewn across the yard, remnants of the celebration that seemed like a century ago. His feet squished in the dewy grass, which laid in navy blue patches in the midnight environment. He looked around, scanning for anything remotely Sherlock, but his deduction skills were nowhere close to his detective friend's, and he had not the faintest clue which direction he might have gone.

"SHERLOCK," he yelled into the crisp air. He strained, listening intently for a response. The only sound he received in return was the battle between crickets and cicadas for the loudest chirps.

He ran forwards, blindly choosing a direction by which to pursue him.

"SHERLOCK, WHERE ARE YOU," he cried out, his voice cracking on the last syllable. "SHERLOCK."

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************

Sherlock bustled away quickly from the building, quickly enfolding himself in his thick coat. The May air was cooler than expected, but not unbearable. He shivered, the coolness of the air meeting with the even cooler rock that had replaced his heart on this dreaded night.

He turned up his coat collar, before the inner monologue that constantly berated him could cruelly remind him to do so. Tonight was not the night to have his inner John rip him to shreds. Oh no, that had already been accomplished by the real John.

"You arse!" he muttered to himself, the boisterous din of the wedding party already fading behind him. "You've ruined everything against, you ignorant twat. It's too late now."

He stopped himself in his tracks, listening to the sound of the crickets surrounding him. No, cicadas. They were chirping much too loudly to be crickets. He listening, his attentive ear tuned from decades of mastering the violin tuning into the sounds of the night. Correction: crickets AND cicadas.

"It's too late."

He whispered it to himself, listening to the baritone of his voice mix with the soprano of the coinciding symphony of insects.

"It's too late."

He said it, with a sturdier voice, room-level, drowning out the infuriating chorus behind him for only a second.

"IT'S TOO LATE." 

He cried it out, his voice quavering as he sunk to his knees. He felt the dew that coated the grass in the wee hours of the morning seep through his pants, and dampen his knee. His sacred knee. The knee that John had touched, briefly, during their stag night. In that moment, when John's fingertips had connected with his joint, Sherlock could very nearly feel the intensity of the moment. All the tension between them that had been sucked dry, partially due to Sherlock's absence, and mostly due to Mary's role in his life, returned. The tension that had existed from the very moment they had rested against the wall of 221B that fateful night long ago, pursuing a taxi-driver on their very first case, it returned in a drunken touch that had lasted an entirety of three seconds. But tonight, there was no tension, no electricity. Just the lapping at of his skin by nature's own tears.

He wiped tears away, streaking his face with salt water. He smiled despite his despair. Even as a high-functioning sociopath, he could not escape the torturous concept of sentiment that he so often ridiculed the human race for succumbing to.

It really was too late. All those unspoken moments with John that he could have used to express his feelings. It would have taken a mere five seconds of courage, to utter a single "I love you", and that could have changed it all. But now, his "I love you"s, as sincere as they were, could only be interpreted as platonic. John had Mary now, and that was good. Mary was good, fantastic even. She was charming and intelligent, and was unarguably the best girlfriend John had ever found. She was the greatest thing to ever happen to John.

And as much as he liked her, Sherlock would always be jealous of her for it.

A sound rang out from beyond the orchestra of the night. It was impossible to decipher, but judging by it's volume and from the direction the sound was traveling, it was possibly a drunken cry from a wedding guest who had taken their affairs outdoors.

It boomed out again, this time, a little closer. Sherlock creased his brow, as he forced himself to listen to what seemed to be an incoherent sentence. "LOCK...YOU." was all he could manage to decode.

He stood up, and brushed off his coat, using his nails to pluck grass clippings and withering lilac rose petals from his beloved coat. He ruffled his hair once more, an action he was growing quite fond of doing at any given moment. He turned on his heel, but before he took a step, the voice cried out a final time.

John.

it was John, his beloved John, crying out into the luminous midnight sky. His voice was thrill, cracking, as if he was choking down a bitter sob, or restraining himself from gasping for air. It was a voice embedded with regret, anxiety, and fear. And it's final word resonated within Sherlock's body, ringing through every grandiose corridor and chamber in his royal mind palace.

"SHERLOCK."

_Stay,_ he thought. _Return to John and smile and wink and apologize and lie and say you were just going out for some fresh air and say you were just going to look at the stars and say you were just going to your mind palace and go inside and drink champagne and dance and chat and play the violin once more and talk with John and talk with Mary and talk with all of them and dance some more and and and..._ He shook his head. Even if he stayed, it would only enforce what had been clawing at him all day. He was replaced already, nine months in advance. And it would be better to get a head start on drifting away, so the pain of replacement wouldn't hit him so bluntly when the baby is born.

_You've done this a thousand times, Sherlock. You've been replaced before. Don't think things will change this time._

The grass crunched beneath his fading footsteps.

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************

"John, love! Did you find him?"

"..."


End file.
